


Husband and Wife

by Mr_Customs_Man



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Customs_Man/pseuds/Mr_Customs_Man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dalish and the Chasind have always had a contentious relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Husband and Wife

Theron must have been about six years old the first time he encountered the Chasind. The Korcari Wilds were like nothing he had ever seen before. It was dark and wet and terrifying, and every animal he saw or sound he heard took on a sinister edge. The day before they had left the Brecilian Forest, Tamlen had begged his parents if he could sleep in Ashalle’s aravel that night with him. While Ashalle snored softly a few feet away, Tamlen told him stories about the Korcari. He whispered about the ghouls that haunted the bog, that anyone who heard their ghostly cries would soon find themselves being dragged to a watery death and become a ghoul themselves. Theron didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into the aravel and hide underneath the furs, but he was too old to ride with the babies and had to walk with the adults.

They came to a clearing and Theron had to blink at the sudden light that manage to break through the thick canopy. Marethari held up her hand and everyone stopped, silent and waiting. Eventually, Theron could hear the light tinkling of a bell and then a young goat wandered into the meadow. The kid had been decorated with ribbons and bells and red paint; it seemed rather perplexed to be there and bleated balefully. At the sight of it the adults released a collective breath that Theron had not realized they had been holding and took possession of the goat.

That evening, as the adults prepared for supper, Marethari slaughtered the kid. Theron cried, he remembered, and protested the act. “We’re not supposed to hunt the young!” He wailed. “They are under Andruil’s protection!” He was inconsolable. He was convinced that Andruil was going to strike them dead right then and there for such a transgression. Ashalle tried to explain what was happening but he didn’t understand it then, all he knew was that their Keeper had broken one of the goddess’s most sacred laws. Paivel told stories of Andruil turning elves into deer, only to then be ripped apart by ravenous wolves. He didn’t want to be eaten by wolves.

One of the hunters picked him up and took him deeper into Wilds, pointing out different plants and flowers and explaining what they could be used for. After a few hours, he realized that if he hadn’t yet been eaten by wolves then it probably wasn’t going to happen and Andruil must not be angry with them. He calmed down and helped the hunter gather some sweetgrass and by the time they made it back to camp the adults had prepared a magnificent feast, the likes of which he had only seen once before to celebrate the marriage between two clanmates.

He heard the drumming long before he saw them. He recognized them as human, but just barely. Most of them were covered in tattoos and body paint, their hair was dyed a blood red and decorated with bones and beads, and - to his shock - they wore only fur skirts to cover their nakedness. Theron and Tamlen giggled at the topless women until Ashalle gave them both a swat on the behind. He looked on in wonder as instead of driving the humans off as he had seen the hunters do in the past, they invited them to the feast as guests of honor. Marethari set the cooked kid before one of the men - a large, imposing figure painted blue and wearing a dirty, torn cloak that bore the Templars’ insignia - before sitting at his side to converse with him and eat. The other elves and humans followed suit, gathering around the bonfire and making merry.

He watched Merrill whisper into the ear of one of the human children. He thought it might have been a girl, but it was hard to tell underneath the paint and black, matted hair. The child was younger than Merrill by several years; she was four, perhaps five years old and Merrill a very grown up eight, or so Theron thought. They huddled close together and started to play with magic, making fire spark at the tips of their fingers. The human child began to egg Merrill on, needling her to make the fire bigger and brighter, until Marethari came over and scolded the pair. The human just laughed, however, and ran towards the big man with the cloak, crawling over his shoulders and hanging onto him by his neck.

By the end of the feast, Theron could barely keep his eyes open. He felt Ashalle scoop him up in her arms and tuck him underneath the furs.

They spent two full seasons in the Korcari Wilds. For the most part, the Chasind left them alone, coming to them only to trade. Their Wilder offspring, however, were another matter. Roving bands of naked human children would appear in their camp, climbing over aravels and trying to ride the halla. It vexed the adults to no end, but for the most part they were forced to tolerate it. Theron would come to learn that the Korcari belonged to the Chasind and that they were one of the few human tribes that not only tolerated the Dalish, but welcomed them as trading partners. It would not do to earn their wrath.

The little mage girl Theron had seen at the feast was called Agrona, a favored daughter of their chief, and she had decided that Merrill was to be her best friend. Merrill didn’t usually play with the other Dalish children; she was Marethari’s first and so spent most of her days following the Keeper around like a second shadow. But when Agrona was there, Merrill was let out of her lessons early and the two would run off into the forest to play and practice their magic. After all, anything that made Agrona happy would make their Chief happy.

“Are you really going to cut open a bird?” Theron asked Merrill as they and Tamlen sat down in a circle to stare at the duck the hunters had trapped. It looked up at them pitifully through the bars of its cage.

“I have to, if I want to read your fortunes,” Merrill explained, her hand shaking as she held up the stone knife Agrona had given her. She bit her lip, “Agrona told me how to do it. I have to cut open the bird and then its blood and entrails will fall to the ground and show the future.”

“Gross.”

“I’ll do it,” Tamlen stated, holding his hand out for the knife. “I’ve helped my father gut fish before, I think I can do a bird.”

“No, a mage has to do it or the spell won’t work.” Merrill furrowed her brow and slipped the knife through the bars of the cage, making the tiniest incision on its breast. The duck let loose a horrifying squawk, despite the fact that hardly any blood had been drawn. Merrill shrieked at the sound and jerked back, wailing, “I think I hurt it!”

The commotion drew everyone’s attention and within a few seconds Marethari was there, hands on hips and glaring down at the three of them. “Just what is going on here?” She demanded, looking at Merrill, who had started bawling, and then at Theron and Tamlen.

“Agrona told Merrill that if she cut open a bird it would show her the future,” Theron explained, shrinking at the sight of Marethari’s darkening expression.

“I didn’t want to hurt it! I’m sorry!” Merrill cried. She tried to stroke the duck through the cage, but it snapped at her.

“Merrill, what Agrona told you about was blood magic. It is forbidden amongst the Dalish.” Marethari sighed and rubbed her forehead. “It is not your fault. I should have warned you about Chasind mages. Go to my aravel and wait for me there, I will explain more later. Boys, take the duck back to the hunters, I am sure they are wondering where their supper has disappeared to.”

Theron and Tamlen immediately jumped to their feet and started to carry the cage back to where the hunters had left the rest of their game. He could hear the adults arguing amongst themselves though, as they left.

“I told you we should have sent those children back to their parents,” one of them hissed. “Sure, they’re only babes now, but just as a pup grows into a wolf, a human child will one day become a barbarian.”

“But the Chasind have been good to us,” another protested. “And we have so few allies.”

“They consort with demons! We cannot possibly stay here!”

They left soon after.

* * *

It was a long time before they returned to the Wilds. A drought had fallen over Ferelden and year after year the crops in the field failed, game turned scarce, and everyone was starving. The clan moved west into Orlais, but it was little better there. They resorted to eating insects and tree bark in order to survive. Eventually, the Orlesians drove them out. They believed “dark” elvhen magic was the source of the drought and Theron heard that many of their flat-eared cousins were being slaughtered in the city streets in reparation.

Ferelden was no better. The alienages at Highever and Denerim had already suffered several purges. There were too many human settlements near the Brecilian Forest for it to be considered safe, so they headed south into the Korcari Wilds.

Theron was eleven and an apprentice hunter. He was already quite good with a bow- better than Tamlen, anyway, much to his friend’s displeasure. Unlike his first visit, the hunters kept their weapons out, unsure of how the Chasind would receive them in such dire times. They marched at the front, to shield the others in case the humans attacked. Theron and Tamlen were with them, feeling very grown-up at being considered worthy of protecting the clan. They entered the clearing and stood and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

There were no bells, no goats, nothing at all. The Dalish were not welcomed.

They tittered amonst themselves. What were they going to do now? Where were they going to go? “There is no where else to go,” Marethari said. “We will stay.”

For three days, the Dalish camped in peace. The hunters were still on high alert. The Chasind would not take this insult lying down, but the Dalish had little choice unless they wanted to starve to death.

On the fourth day, Agrona appeared.

She was eight now and looked like a young halla: all lean limbs and long face. Her cheekbones sharp from lack of food and there was a mean, stringy look to her that did not sit well with Theron. She had dyed her hair that same shade of lurid red that the rest of her tribe sported and, sitting high on her forehead, was a crown made from the bones of birds. She was alone, however; none of the Chasind warriors had accompanied her, and she held her hands aloft in a gesture of peace.

The hunters lowered their bows and Marethari went out to greet her, Merrill tagging along, as always.

Agrona’s face lit up at the sight of Merrill, but when she spoke it was to the Keeper. “I have been sent by my tribe’s Priestess to welcome you. We wish for you to join with us for the Canutulachama.”

“There was no Covenant to greet us,” Marethari said warily, surprised by this passivity that the Chasind had never been known for before.

“All of our goats died. We having nothing to offer as a Covenant. We must give what meat we have left in oblation to the Great Mother Andraste, so that She might show us mercy. Canutulachama.”

Marethari thought for a moment, then nodded her head. “We will attend Canutulachama as your guests.”

Agrona shook her head. “No, the Priestess says you are to join with us. The Great Mother has commanded it. The Priestess cut open a loon and saw it written in its entrails. This must be done, or the rains will not return. I have been chosen by my people to be your Husband and Merrill shall be our Bride.”

If the Keeper had been a dog, her hackles would have risen at such a statement. “Merrill is pledged to another,” she lied. “Choose someone else.”

Agrona pouted, but cast her eye around all the same. Her gaze finally landed on Theron and she grinned. “That one.” She pointed. “He shall be our Bride.”

Tamlen, who was no help at all, burst into laughter. “Maybe Ashalle will make you a wedding wreath for your big day!” He crowed between gasps of breath.

Theron could only stand there in horror. “You’re going to marry me off to a human? And why do I have to be the bride? Oh, Mythal, what… what’s going to happen after the wedding? Do we, you know, have to… you know…”

Marethari let out a soft chuckle. “Do not worry, child, the Canutulachama is a symbolic wedding. After the celebration, you will return with us and everything will go on as before. This is no true marriage.” The Keeper turned back to the human girl. “We agree to your terms, go and tell your Priestess.”

Agrona grinned and took off running through the bog, back to her tribe.

“If this is just a symbolic marriage, then why wouldn’t you let Merrill be the bride?” Theron huffed, folding his arms in irritation as Tamlen started to pick flowers and sing wedding songs.

“Because Merrill is a mage and, as such, is vulnerable to demons. I do not know what rituals are involved with the Canutulachama, but knowing the Chasind it probably involves blood magic of some sort.”

“Fine, but that still doesn’t explain why I’m the BRIDE!”

Marethari grinned and patted his head. “It has something to do with their Maker. As I said, I do not know exactly what happens at the ceremony. I have never seen it take place, so I only know what the Chasind have told me. It is a symbolic recreation of the Maker’s union with Andraste after her death. I suppose that since this is their land, they must take the role of Husband. Just as the Fade belongs to the Maker, or so they say. We are the newcomers, which makes us Andraste.”

Tamlen then presented his poorly constructed wreath of dandelions and placed it delicately on Theron’s head, proclaiming him to be the prettiest bride of all.

* * *

Theron sighed dramatically as he, Marethari, and a small contingent of hunters marched through the Wilds towards the Chasind village. The Keeper had insisted he look the part, which included a real wedding wreath to Tamlen’s endless delight. The women in the village had immediately set to work, using what flowers they could find. They had managed to scrounge up some spidery-looking lilies that stank of rot and mulch, just like the bog it grew in. Luckily, Marethari hadn’t insisted he wear a dress along with the wreath. He might have died of embarrassment if she had.

Tamlen walked beside him, cracking jokes until one of the hunters finally yanked him on his ear. “Theron has proven himself to be a true hunter of the Dalish,” the man hissed. “He is doing what needs to be done to provide for his clan. What have you done lately that could compare, apprentice?”

After that, Tamlen said nothing else.

The Chasind village looked nothing like the other human settlements Theron had seen before. He had caught brief glimpses of their villages once or twice in is life whenever he accidentally wandered too close; their buildings were made of stone, and looked fierce and imposing. The Chasind, however, lived in mud huts. Tamlen and Theron were unable to take their eyes off the women; they didn’t giggle as they had years ago when they had been barely more than babes; now they stared, riveted, by the sight of the human females’ bare, bouncing breasts. “I thank the gods everyday that Merrill is a girl, Mythal help me if I had been given a boy,” Marethari muttered to herself as she ushered the two young apprentices away, towards where the Chasind Chief stood tall and proud before a great bonfire. He wore a horned helmet and the dirty Templar cloak was even more ragged than when Theron had last seen it. By his side stood Agrona, bedecked in rich-looking furs. The Chief raised his hands and welcomed them in his great, booming voice, “We give thanks to the Great Mother on this day! We offer her the blood of the Bride, as She had once been offered to the Father. May this marriage be fruitful and bless the land with many daughters, daughters of grain and fruit!”

Children bearing plates full of freshly cooked meat appeared, setting their bounty on skins spread across the ground around the fire. Theron felt his mouth water at the sight. He hadn’t seen that much food in years. Where had they gotten it all? Didn’t Agrona say that all of their goats had died? He didn’t care where they had gotten it. He was so hungry. It had been such a long time since he had had a proper meal that the stomach pains no longer bothered him, but now it was like the fires had been fanned. The Chief continued talking, “Go into the bridal house, young one. At nightfall you shall be given in oblation to your Husband.” When he realized he wasn’t going to stay for the feast he almost protested, but then the women started to gather around him, pressing all around, and oh, Mythal, touching him. Suddenly the feast didn’t seem all that important; Tamlen and Marethari was sure to save him something anyway. Theron couldn’t help but grin widely when the human women surrounded him and began to tug on his arms, pulling him towards the bridal hut. He felt his hand brush over the breast of a pretty, young woman and she gave him a cheeky grin. Theron could have happily died right then and there.

“I should go with him,” Tamlen announced, envy marring his face. “What if they do some sort of naked blood magic ritual on him?”

“Zirra will go with him,” Marethari commanded, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. “You will stay put. Zirra, keep him safe for me.”

The hunter nodded and followed the group into the hut. The women pushed him to sit down on a stone bench and started to anoint his hair and hands with a sweet-smelling oil, almost managing to cover up the horrible stench of the bog-lilies. Zirra came to stand next to him, bow out but not drawn. “Why do human women have such big… uh…” Theron whispered to her as the humans took their leave, gesturing to his chest. “… you know.”

“Hm, they’re not that big,” Zirra said with a shrug.

“Bigger than elves.”

“… Shut up, kid.”

The women returned with what Theron assumed was their Priestess. She was a decrepit old women with long white hair and when she smiled Theron could see she was missing all of her teeth. She carried a bowl of red dirt and with it she began to draw strange markings on his skin. Theron started to grow bored; she wasn’t nearly as interesting as the other women to look at and he could hear the sounds of the feast going on outside. He was so hungry.

“Now you are ready to meet your Divine Husband,” she said and pushed aside the animal skin that hung from the hut, allowing Agrona to step inside.

Unlike all the other times he had seen her, Agrona looked nervous and almost… scared. “Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, I am yours and you are mine.” Then she swooped, lightning fast, and planted a kiss on his mouth.

“Take your Bride outside,” The Priestess commanded. “And offer yourselves up to the Great Mother and Her Holy Husband, as They have done for you.”

Agrona slipped her hand into his and it felt warm and soft. Together, the two of them stepped out of the hut where the cheering humans sat waiting for them. He could see Marethari and the hunters sitting beside the great fire, devouring the meat that the humans had offered them. But not Tamlen. Theron frowned and glanced around, trying to figure out where his friend had disappeared to.

He had assumed they would join others and sit down, but Agrona led the closer and closer to the fire. Too close. “What are you doing?” He asked, tugging on her hand to force her stop, feeling the heat of the flames prickle his skin.

She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean? We are to be joined in the Maker’s Land as Husband and Wife.”

“The Maker’s Land? You mean the Fade?” Theron asked, feeling nervous all of a sudden. “But… symbolically, right? It’s just… we can’t go into the Fade. Not really. Not unless we’re asleep or, or…”

Agrona looked at him expectedly. “We must enter the fire and offer up our blood to the Maker, as Andraste was offered to her Husband. Canutulachama.”

It was a horrible sort of realization that dawned on him just then. Without even thinking, Theron pushed her away and sent her sprawling to the ground. Marethari was on her feet at once. “Theron, what is going on?” She hadn’t heard. She didn’t know what the Chasind had intended to do to him. To do to the Chief’s own daughter! Were all humans so evil?

Before Theron could reply, Tamlen burst through the village, screeching at the top of his lungs. “Human! The meat is human!”

At once the elves had drawn their bows and started firing arrows at any human they laid their eyes on, terrified that they too would be become just another meal for the Chasind. If they could eat their own kind, what was to stop them from devouring the elves? Theron watched the Chief limp along like a wounded deer, clutching the shaft of Zirra’s arrow where it protruded from his neck. Marethari swung her staff down towards the old Priestess, causing the ground to shake and split open. Theron saw in amazement as a large mound of dirt and rock was ripped from the earth and hurled at the witch with a crushing force. “Everyone, move! Now! Back to the camp!” She screamed and they fled.

Later that night, as the clan moved northward, Theron and Tamlen laid beside each other in Ashalle’s aravel. They should have walked with the adults, but Marethari insisted that they rest and they couldn’t help but bury themselves underneath the furs despite the stifling heat of summer. Tamlen started slowly at first, explaining that since the Chasind had so much meat they wouldn’t notice if any of it went missing. So, he snuck into the smokehouse and saw rows of humans strung upside down from the ceiling like hogs.

* * *

Theron was a Grey Warden when he met Agrona again. She didn’t recognize him and her hair was no longer that shade of blood red, but as black as it had been the first time he had seen her. She didn’t remember what had happened, didn’t seem to remember much of anything but the life she had spent with Flemeth.

“Could she have stolen you as a child?” he had asked her once, just see what she knew and what she didn’t. She admitted it was possibility, but seemed disinclined to believe it. Maybe it was better that way; she would have been murdered just the same as him, and by her own father no less. And for what? Some superstitious ritual for a god that didn’t exist?

“Move, elf, you have your own tent,” Morrigan commanded, shoving at Theron’s bare shoulder.

“You would use me then cast me out into the cold night? Cruel woman!”

Morrigan laughed mockingly. “Oh? I didn’t think you to be the sentimental type. Should we have waited and had a proper Chantry wedding?” She pulled ineffectually on his arm in an effort to rouse him from his prone position. Theron only made himself more comfortable; if she really wanted him gone he’d already be lying face-first in the dirt outside her tent.

“Don’t be silly, we’re already married. Coming up on our fifteen year anniversary now.”

Morrigan let out a huff and collapsed beside him. “You are a strange man. I suppose you’ll want me to stay at home and darn socks like a good, little wife?”

“No, I expect you to go out and put bread on the table. I’m the wife, not that I have much to show for it. No house, no kids… not even a ring! Fifteen years of marriage and you’ve never once given me a ring! You are a terrible husband to treat your wife this way.” He curled into her neck, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair.

“A very strange man, indeed.” There was a smile in her voice. “Still, I suppose I might keep you.”


End file.
